


Can you hold it?

by grossalien (Propriety_is_not_a_priority)



Series: Tumblr [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Propriety_is_not_a_priority/pseuds/grossalien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s barely three hours into their capture, before Sherlock notices.</p>
<p>In which John forcefully realizes that he can't ignore his body quite as long as Sherlock can, and a capture becomes awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can you hold it?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> Spur of the moment fic. I do that. Watersports is a huge kink, especially wetting, so yay? Also, it happened on Songlin's request, so thank you Songlin.
> 
> Completely un-betaed. Give me a hint if you catch a mistake?

It’s barely three hours into their capture, before Sherlock notices.

John knew it was inevitable, of course, but there was always the desperate hope that Lestrade would pull through, and somehow connect the dots left behind by Sherlock fast enough.  
But of course, it took Sherlock the best part of a day to get this far, and even then, he hadn’t predicted the size of the gang, and how organized they were. If Sherlock missed clues, what was the chance Lestrade would be able to follow the same ones in a couple of hours.

Bodily functions are always a low priority when working with Sherlock, and John have had to piss in more alleyways the last year, than he’d done his entire life until moving in to 221B. He’s always been able to hold it long enough to find an opportune moment though. That is, until he was chained to a pipe in a laundry room in a decades old department building, after not having used the bathroom for more than 10 hours of fast phased chasing.

Sherlock, chained to the wall opposite, watches him in silence for a couple of minutes. John can feel the blush creep up his neck, but he can also feel his muscles spasm, and he can not stop clenching and unclenching his legs muscles.  
It’s torture, not being able to at least hold himself. He resists the urge to cross his legs.

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again. His cheeks looks a little flushed.

“Can you hold it?”

John grits his teeth, doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think about the answer. His feet are scrapping against the concrete floor as he involuntarily does a rather pathetic half-jump shuffle movement, with the intent to counteract the wave of desperation that just overtook him. Bugger it all, Lestrade better show up in the next 10 minutes, or not at all. He doesn’t want the man to see him in soiled trousers.

He doesn't want Sherlock to see him wet either, but it's already past the point of humiliation there. It must be obvious to the man just how close John is to losing control. John does his best to avoid all eye-contact, as he gives into the increasing need to cross his legs.  
The pressure on his cock is only a small relief, but it's better than nothing, as he keeps clenching and jiggling. He's given up pretense, no point in restraint when Sherlock can probably tell just from the distention of his bladder, how critical the situation is getting.

"You should just let go"  
Sherlock's voice is barely audible. His voice is rough, and when John gives him an embarrassed, incredulous look, he clears his throat.  
"You're a doctor. From a medical perspective, overstretching the bladder can be quite dangerous."

John shakes his head stubbornly, even as he bends over as much as he can with his wrists caught up in the cuffs. It's true, maybe, but he's not going down without a fight. Wetting himself like a child after only a few hours of capture is not acceptable.

"You know, you're not going to make it." The matter of fact tone is betrayed by a slight breathlessness, and John looks at Sherlock sharply.  
The room light in the room is placed almost immediately above John, so that puts Sherlock in the shadow. Still, the body language, the posture, the barely visible flush of heat in his normally pale cheeks. Could it be Sherlock was aroused by this?  
By John being about to wet himself?

"Sherlock..." John's own voice, cracks a bit, his concentration shot as all his energy go towards not giving in. Still, he soldiers on. "Sherlock, do you want me to piss myself?" He's impressed by himself. A whole coherent sentence, and he didn't even let the whimper at the back of his throat slip out, when his bladder decided to cramp half-way through.  
Letting go is becoming more appealing by the second.

Sherlock's breath stutters.  
"I... yes."

John is torn between laughing hysterically and being intrigued.  
"So, piss turns you on?"  
It doesn't matter, shouldn't matter, it isn't his kink and Sherlock isn't his lover, so it really isn't any of his business. Problem is, John has been in lust with Sherlock for months now, and the frustration as the man's apparent lack of interest in sex has become a fixed part of his everyday life.  
And then he stumbles into Sherlock's fetish by accident.

Sherlock sounds insecure when he answers, like he's afraid John will be disgusted with him. Maybe he should be. "Yes. Well, not in all circumstances, but..." He trails off, like he's catching himself.  
John wants to flirt with him, reassure him that it's alright - because strangely enough, it is. But it's becoming a moot point, because whether or not he wants to indulge Sherlock's kink, he's pretty sure he's about to. His cock is half-hard with piss, his urethra so stuffed it's a wonder he isn't dribbling. He's breathing like someone running a marathon, sweating like one too. His muscles are slipping.

He's losing the fight.

This time the whimper does escape, but Sherlock's name comes out with it, so it's not a total failure.  
Sherlock is less than two meters away, and his breathing is almost as hard as John's.  
"John, just let go John, John, John, John." The chanting is a low murmur, that penetrates the fog in John's head, where he's reduced to counting seconds. It's completely useless, if they were freed now, John wouldn't even be able to move, but still he fights his body.

Then, John let's go.  
A few agonizing seconds, his muscles lock up in protest, doesn't believe that he has given up, but then there's a spurt of hot piss wetting his pants, and then more and then it's flowing out of him like a bleeding fountain. The hiss of liquid against jeans is audible in the quiet room, as is Sherlock's hitching, moaning breath and John's own sigh of relief. 

It's not as disgusting as he would have imagined. The heat flows down his legs, and there's a small warm puddle inside his pants, were it can't soak through fast enough. Soon, there are puddles at his feet too. It's mostly just a pleasantly hot sensation, mixed with the incredible relief of just finally relaxing. It's almost orgasmic in itself, to let go.

When he finally finishes, the puddle at his feet almost covers half the distance between him and Sherlock. The smell of piss hangs in the air,and his cock resumes being half-hard, this time not with piss. It becomes full-hard when he looks back up at Sherlock.

The man is a mess. The erection pressing against his pants is very visible, his face is feverish, his lips bitten. His hips are twitching a bit, as he seeks friction against the material of his too-tight trousers. His eyes are fixed on John's wet crotch.  
He looks absolutely debauched.

Of course, that's the moment Lestrade chooses to barge through the door at John's left.


End file.
